Oh, Play That Thing

by Roddy Doyle

  —No.

  —What?

  I did the driving, while Louis smoked his way to the right state for recording, in his latest struggle-buggy, a Hupmobile that went from there to there only because it was very fond of Louis. We stopped off at the building where Alpha stayed with her mother. Louis was gone, and quickly back, and angry.

  —That woman ain’t Lil, he said.

  He often said that.

  Alpha was a consumer. Louis was the butter and egg man and he didn’t get in there without the goods. Her mother stood across the door and Alpha wouldn’t see him. He was broke most of the time and Alpha didn’t understand or care.

  —Drive by Lil’s place, O’Pops.

  I brought him past the house on 44th. It seemed to calm him. What could have been; what used to be – it seemed to be enough. Maybe he thought there was still a future there, when everything was sorted.

  —Time, said Louis.

  He was ready for the studio.

  I rode shotgun that night, while he recorded Tight Like This, in four takes.

  —IT TIGHT LIKE THIS, LOUIS.

  It was me who supplied the voice of the girl. Earl Hines tried it, Don Redman tried; they all tried, but it was me who found the voice that stopped Louis.

  —He the one make me hard.

  It annoyed the others; I wasn’t a player – but that’s me on the record. The 12th of December, 1928.

  His lips were killing him. He patted the salve on, but it couldn’t smother the pain, or even hide it. He sat in front of a mirror I held for him, and picked at a red sore with a needle.

  He sounded far away.

  —Got to get them little pieces of dead skin out ’cause they plug up my mouthpiece.

  He stood and started again. It hurt to watch, when he put the piece to his mouth, and more when he took it down – the grease clung, blood seeped through. He closed his eyes, wiped flesh and metal clean with his hankie, put the pain back to his lip, once, twice, four times, and played that dirty song like it was the ride of his life. I was there, and that was enough for the men behind the glass. They took Louis’s nod. The fourth was the one.

  St James Infirmary took six, and the pain was there in the voice – SAW MY BAYY-BEE THERE – even though the singing gave him time to get the horn away from his chops.

  —SHE’LL NEVER FIY-ND ANOTHER SWEET MAN LIKE ME.

  I hadn’t known him long but he’d brought that song through two women, his wife, and the woman who was going to be his wife, even though she’d already finished with him. And then there were other women too. It tight like this, Louis.

  —Tell us, I asked him during a break, when Wickemeyer was pushing the piano two inches closer to a microphone. This studio was new, and those inches suddenly mattered. Electricity had come up from the street. Wickemeyer was a calmer man behind his double-glazed window. And the players were too – less stomping and shaking; they kept their eyes on the mikes, made sure they didn’t shiver. The walls were strange, detached from the real walls behind them. The recordings, when we heard them, were clearer, better. The piano was there, and all the drums; the banjo was no longer a scratch.

  —Did you drop in on Alpha tonight just to get into the mood for that song? I asked him. (—Just hear him play when he’s angry, Lil had said.)

  He looked at me, shock hanging off him.

  —What the song got to do with anything? he said.

  —Just a thought.

  —Too much of the Irish in you, Pops, he said. —See here. I want her pussy, not sing about not having her pussy. Song’s a song, pussy’s a pussy. Sing one, wish I could make the other sing.

  He exhaled, slowly.

  —But maybe you right.

  —Nigger jazz.

  I rescued the needle.

  —What?

  —That’s what that was, said Miss O’Shea. —I’ve heard it.

  —Did you like it? I asked Saoirse.

  —Yes.

  —That was Louis Armstrong, I told her.

  —The man doing the funny singing?

  —That’s right. And he played the trumpet as well.

  —What was the singing about?

  —Nothing really, I said. —He sometimes just does that. There aren’t real words.

  —It’s funny.

  —That was called Basin Street Blues, I told them.

  I turned to Miss O’Shea.

  —Did you like it? I asked her.

  The answer was everything.

  —Oh, yes, she said. —It was grand.

  —You didn’t like it.

  —No, I did. I liked it.

  She stood up off the bed and went to the wardrobe. She closed its doors and stretched to grab the handle of the suitcase on the top.

  —I’ll get it for you.

  —You will not.

  She slid the case off the wardrobe, grabbed with her other hand just as the case started to fall. She kneeled, and brought the case to the floor.

  —Where are we going? said Saoirse.

  —Nowhere.

  I wanted to tell her now, before she had to go downstairs to work: I was Louis Armstrong’s white man. But I couldn’t. Her back was to me; she was bending over the case. She sat back on her ankles, and I heard the locks spring open.

  —Now.

  She took out what I thought was a cardigan.

  —What are you doing? said Saoirse.

  —Wait and see.

  —What’s she up to? I asked Saoirse.

  —Wait and see.

  I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t talk to her back. She unwrapped the cardigan; I thought I saw more cloth under it. She put in a hand, and out of the clothes came a record.

  —Now.

  She held it up, in a purple sleeve.

  —What’s that?

  —That’s a silly question.

  —What?

  —Wait now.

  She stood up, and she turned and I saw her face and colour – sex, excitement. She stepped to the phonograph.

  —Now.

  She lifted my record and handed it to me.

  —Thank you, Henry.

  She slid her own record from the sleeve, held it to the light, blew its dust at me, and lowered it; her fingers followed all the way.

  —Aren’t they the great invention?

  —Yeah, I said.

  —Can I do it? said Saoirse.

  —Next time.

  —Ah.

  —Ah yourself.

  And she lowered the needle.

  It was Fletcher Henderson’s band, but Louis had a dressing room to himself. But he didn’t; Louis had nothing to himself. He came down the stairs, surrounded – pulled, pushed and loved. It was Monday night, and the black people were in. I was behind the gang, descending into the steam, the smell of good cooking and working people. Louis’s room was right beside the stairs and, two steps shy of the ground, I could see that it was already a squeeze in there.

  —Something always sweet about the back of a ofay’s head.

  I turned.

  Dora was one step behind, above me, and I was looking into her eyes.

  —Howyeh, Dora.

  —How-yah, Henry S.

  I looked at her, she looked at me. The bodies came and went around us. I didn’t notice Louis’s room being emptied.

  She came down the last step.

  —How you been, Henry S.?

  —Grand.

  —I heard. You the big news these days.

  —I can’t help it, I said.

  —Running round with Dipper.

  She glanced away, at Louis’s room, and then I heard. Something hit the door – wooden, something, probably a chair. I turned and had my shoulder on the door before I heard her speak.

  —Careful, she said.

  Louis was sitting down. His back to the big mirror. Stuffed into a chair with no arms. Crowded by the guys on either side. Stuck there in his shorts and vest. His right hand was up, like a kid in school. There were two of the hard guys, and
Louis’s hand was being held by one of them, the wrist in one hand, and, in the other, a finger. Pulled back, about to pop. They were teaching Louis a lesson.

  The hard guy let go of Louis’s wrist and went for the jacket pocket, just as my boot found room between his legs and kicked. He didn’t fall or tumble but every part stopped working and stood still. Louis was up and trying to get away, trying to take his clothes out with him. The second guy was bigger than the room. My elbow beat him to it, and he went back against the mirror with his hand still in his pocket. I got myself between the guns and Louis, and he was out – trousers, jacket, coat and shoes – into the corridor, and I grabbed his trumpet and followed. Dora was gone; I saw that as I went after Louis. I tried to run but couldn’t. The corridor was too narrow and full. A bullet cracked wood, sent bodies diving and, still, I couldn’t run. I heard another; its sting was in my fingers. The bullet had hit the trumpet.

  Louis hit the door. He took the thing right off its fuckin’ hinges. I was impressed, but it left me without cover. And Louis stopped to get dressed.

  —Not now, Louis.

  —Not dying without my nice vine on me. It Chicago cold out here.

  —For fuck sake.

  The alley was empty. They were still inside, unwilling to run into an ambush. We’d see them soon. But Louis was dressed now, and this time I could run.

  And Louis was with me. Panting, but right there. I took the corners but I’d no idea where we really were. Into night crowds, and out, alleys and streets. Twice he grabbed my arm and brought me round a corner. I looked and saw the hard men at us, or heard them. They were fit and angry. Frightened. Going home to Al or Pink Carmine, business unfinished. Dead unless they got us. They’d stay the pace; I heard them.

  We ran across a crowd.

  —Hey! Louis! Her ol’ man after you!

  Across a street. Wide, still busy. I didn’t know it. Through cars and bodies. The light, the music – I didn’t know the place. But I felt it.

  The water. Under us.

  He felt it too. I heard it. A gasp, the sudden pain and pull.

  —Oh Pops.

  It had us grabbed.

  —That’s water, I told him. —Keep running.

  —Trying, Pops.

  —Keep running.

  No choice now. We ran above the flow, stuck to its course. It ran us two blocks.

  —How do we get down there? I asked him.

  —Down where?

  —To the water.

  The river answered for him. It took us off the street, through weeds across a vacant lot. I didn’t know it, or the houses that walled it. On to a parallel, quieter street.

  —Where are we? I asked him.

  —State.

  —Really?

  —Truly.

  —How did that happen?

  He didn’t answer. He held out a hand and took his trumpet from me. I bent down. I found the gap, a drain, in under the sidewalk. I edged closer to it. I kneeled, got my head in. It was black down there, but I could hear and feel it. Chicago water. And he could feel it too; it was in his face and eyes when I looked up.

  —Will you be able to manage? I asked him.

  —Manage?

  —Get through here?

  —Go ahead, Pops. I’ll skinny myself.

  The hards were coming after us. We couldn’t see them but they were on their way. I could hear their shoe leather, angry breath across the lot, just around the corner.

  I lay down and my feet found the hole. I pushed backwards. I felt the sidewalk against my back but it didn’t stop me. Gut, chest, face – I got them through. I held on with my hands.

  —Come on.

  Louis was on his knees now, on his stomach. His face was close to mine.

  —You’re in the way, Pops.

  I let go and dropped. I fell through black, and hit the water, tucked in my legs until I knew the depth. My knees hit stone, but the water lifted me; the pain was a memory before I was aware of it. My hat stayed on my head. I was home here. I was home. Welcome to the Swan River, boys.

  The needle clung to the edge of the record, scratched, stayed on, got in there, past the scratching. The strings and horns – my new-trained ear was rearranging.

  And it started.

  —MA-CUUSH-LA—

  MA-CUUSH-LA—

  YOUR SWEE-EET VOICE IS CALL—

  INGGGG—

  She sat back on her heels, and smiled. Miss O’Shea again. Home, and far from home. She opened her eyes and stared at me.

  I looked up, saw a bright hole, night-time bright. I saw Louis’s feet.

  —Come on, I said. —It’s grand.

  The light above was sliced, and Louis gasped as he let himself drop. I was out of his way; I heard him land, but didn’t see. I turned and felt his wave. I felt him there, standing out of the water, shaking, settling.

  Another gasp. Surprise.

  —It is grand, O’Pops, he whispered, and liked the sound. — O’Pops, O’Pops. Ha ha.

  —Told you.

  He grabbed my arm.

  —That you?

  He let go of my arm. I could see him now. He stood to his waist in the fast flowing water, with his hands clasped in front of him, like he was up on the street and the big shots weren’t after him. The wounded trumpet was safe inside his coat.

  —O’Pops, O’Pops. We should cut some records down here.

  It was easy country, American-new, clean-cut tunnels, no falls or juts. It was dark, but flat and reliable, lake water, in no mad hurry. We were in under the prairie.

  —Are you right? I said.

  —Right, tight, and out for the night.

  —Let’s go.

  —Lead the way. Back there or up here?

  —We’ll go with the flow.

  —’Bout time I started doing that.

  I lifted my arms and made short hopping steps, my gut cutting the path. He was right behind me, humming. The terror was still throwing bombs at me but Louis took out his trumpet and started playing. Down there, as we walked under Chicago, Louis played Basin Street Blues. The bullet had done no damage.

  —They’ll hear you, I said.

  —But not see. They’ll think it the ghost of Louis Armstrong. And maybe they’ll be right.

  —You’re not dead yet.

  —Believe you. Pops. Just about.

  There was nothing for a while, just us, our breath, our hearts.

  —We can’t stay down here forever.

  —That the Irish in you, Henry. Always the bad news.

  —They’ll be up there when we go back up.

  —That right. But they down here right now?

  —No.

  —So let me enjoy my swim. Know where we’re going?

  —No.

  —Do they?

  —No.

  —See, Pops? It’s easy. You got to start to thinking like a Negro. We not heading into a whupping. We just got away from one.

  She kept my hand pressed to her stomach. I could feel her through my arm. For the first time. The first American time. John McCormack had done it. The Irishman who’d conquered America. Macushla, Macushla. The voice that bridged the Atlantic. I couldn’t stand him but I’d kept that to myself.

  We were happy there. We’d found the people we’d loved and left. We were both home now, both the same. I could smell the sods that had roofed the bunker where we’d lain together the last time, before Saoirse was born, before I’d killed and left. I could put my hand to my head and feel it seven years before, the muck in my hair, the dirt. We were there again. Young, in love. It was good. And it killed me.

  She kissed my arm.

  —What are you thinking about? she said.

  —Nothing much.

  —I’ll be needing a better answer than that.

  —Yes, Miss.

  We were older now. I was older and I knew: there was an end, and it was always in sight. And she knew it too, better than I ever would. She thought she’d been there already; she knew she’d
see it again.

  But not for now, not soon. We were back. Our daughter in the far corner, asleep and miles away. We were under the sods in Roscommon; we were on the road, on the Arseless Horse, pedalling backwards to the start. (—What’s your name, so?

  —Henry Smart.)

  —So? she said.

  —So?

  —What are you up to?

  Her hand was on my gut now. She held skin; she squeezed it.

  I couldn’t tell her.

  —Ah, sure, I said.

  I was on the run again.

  —This and that.

  We came up out of the river with the decision. Soaked and giggling, still terrified. Only a streetlight to warm us.

  —Maybe I should get a gun, I said.

  —No, man, he said. —That not the way.

  —I’m kind of a manager, I told her.

  —That’s a real Henry answer, she said. —And what is it you’d be kind of managing?

  —A friend, I said.

  —A friend.

  —He’s a – he plays – he’s a musician.

  —What’s his name, so?

  —Louis Armstrong, I said.

  —Where’s he from?

  I was tempted. Roscommon, Dublin. Home.

  —Somewhere down south, I said. —New Orleans. I think.

  —Does he sing?

  —Yeah. And he plays the trumpet.

  I pointed at the far corner, at the phonograph.

  —That was him, I said. —You liked it. You said.

  —Nigger jazz.

  —Jazz.

  —What does a manager do?

  —You liked it.

  —Yes, I did.

  —I kind of look after him.

  —God love him.

  But there was fun in it. She was smiling.

  —Why does he need looking after?

  —Jaysis, I said. —It’s a complicated life.

  I could see her, listening, in beside me, waiting.

  —The same old story, I said. —Exploitation. He has all this, talent. And people want to—

  —I know.

  —They want to use him. They want to make him—

  —But it’s only ol’ music, she said.

  Her hand was there, under the sheet, in mine.

  —Isn’t it?

  We went to the pictures.

  Father and daughter. Daddy and his girl. But she didn’t call me Dad or Daddy, or anything else. She never ran to me – I’m ho-ome! – or let herself be lifted and swung. But she was happy enough to walk beside me. She was happy to talk and listen. She fired the questions at me.